Laundry Day
by Xehra
Summary: Like most teenagers, young Obi-Wan hates to clean his room.


Title: Laundry Day  
Author: Xehra Bethe xehra@xmail.com   
Rating: PG for a smidgen of language  
Setting: Pre-TPM, Obi-Wan is about 14  
Summary: Like most teenagers, young Obi-Wan hates to clean his room.  
Disclaimer: Sadly, the characters you know and love are not mine, no matter how much I wish Obi-Wan was ... They belong to the wonderfully talented George Lucas. I make no money out of this story.  
Archive: Go for it  
Feedback: Always needed!  
Thanks: To Peta, Jane and JediCandy for the beta  
  
~~~~~~~~  
Laundry Day  
~~~~~~~~  
  
"Obi-Wan! Come here this instant!"  
The bellow came from the direction of the Padawan's small room. Sighing, Obi-Wan dragged himself off the couch where he had been reclining and went to see what his Master was angry about now.  
  
Qui-Gon was standing in the doorway of his room, an exasperated look on his face as he pointed at the mess all over the floor.   
  
"Your room is a pigsty. Since today is laundry day, it is fitting that you do some. Not just the clothes either. Clean it all up before I have to call the fumigators," he stated simply, his tone brooking no nonsense.  
  
"But..."  
  
Qui-Gon threw up one hand, palm outward.  
  
"But nothing. You've been told before. If this isn't clean by the time I get back from my lunch appointment, no holovids for a month."  
  
Obi-Wan's face fell, but his Master's expression remained stony. Sulkily, his Padawan trudged past him into his room and surveyed the disorder that had so offended Qui-Gon. An experimental sniff proved his Master's assessment of the situation. The room certainly smelt like the dwelling of a pig. And it was definitely time to do some laundry, Obi-Wan thought as he cleared a path through the mounds of discarded garments.  
  
Picking up one pile of sweaty robes, he remembered he'd flung them to one side after saber training last week. Wrinkling his nose and holding them as far away from his body as he could, the Padawan dumped them in his laundry basket. Similar trips filled the basket to the brim and Obi-Wan found he could see the carpet again.  
  
Taking this as an encouragement, he flicked on the ceiling fan to try and clear some of the stale air. Returning his attention to the cluttered room, he realized just what a big job it was going to be.  
  
"I hate to admit it, but Master was right," he muttered to himself while sweeping empty food containers and choc-bar wrappers into the bin.  
  
He toiled on; throwing out mountains of old catalogues, broken crockery and a few now-dead creepy-crawlies that had tried unsuccessfully to flee when he picked up the last pile of underwear. His desk was another task all of its own.  
  
"My poor cactus!" he moaned, rescuing it from its shelf above his console. The emaciated plant hadn't been watered since he couldn't remember when. "I sure am glad Qui-Gon wouldn't let me get that goldfish," he told the shrivelled skeleton, before unceremoniously binning it, pot and all.  
  
What he didn't want, he threw away. What was important, he kept. What he couldn't decide about, he stuffed under the bed. When the floor was clear enough to walk on, Obi-Wan got out the vacuum and sucked up a few month's worth of accumulated dirt.  
  
Finally he decided his room was clean enough to satisfy even the fastidious Master Yoda. Standing in the centre of the apartment, Obi-Wan surveyed his handiwork and felt a strange sense of accomplishment and pride. All that remained was to wash his dirty clothes.  
  
Picking up the overflowing basket, he made his way through the living area to the small alcove that contained a washer, dryer and sink. Jedi were expected to be self-sufficient, cooking, cleaning their quarters and doing their laundry themselves. Ditching his basket, Obi-Wan went back for a second armload of socks and underwear. He chucked those in the sink.   
  
He was about to start loading up the washing machine when the laundry chute caught his eye. He wasn't supposed to use it, of course. It was for garments that were badly stained or torn, or for when Jedi were too sick to wash for themselves.  
  
Obi-Wan knew that clothes thrown down there were washed by droids and the clothes that could be salvaged were reused.   
  
No one would ever know if he used it, he thought to himself. He could easily get new robes from the Temple Supply-Master. He could just tell Qui-Gon that he'd grown out of his old ones, which was partially true. He'd noticed that very morning the sleeves on his over-robe were getting a little too short. That wouldn't break the no-lying-to-your-Master rule that all Padawans lived by, not really. It was almost too easy.  
  
He wrestled with his conscience a few moments before pulling all of the robes, pants and shirts out of the basket. Then he pulled down the metal door of the chute and shoved them in. As soon as they began their slide down the metal interior Obi-Wan regretted it. Why had he done such a stupid thing?  
  
"I must be insane," he muttered, staring blankly at the wall. "I just threw all my clothes away."  
  
With dismay he realized he now had only the clothes he was wearing and the one good outfit left in his wardrobe to last him until he could get to the Supply Room.   
  
Shame overcame Obi-Wan's alarm as he realized what a selfish, lazy Padawan he was. Qui-Gon was going to kill him, he knew. He had abused a service not meant for him just to get out of doing his laundry.  
  
Almost panic-stricken now, he swept what clothes he had left, which was mostly underwear, into the washing machine and switched it on. He rested his hands on the sides for a moment before turning to regard the metal chute door. Maybe he could get his clothes back before the crime was discovered.  
  
He approached it and pulled down the handle again. The gaping tunnel ran downwards at an angle for a few cubits then increased its steepness to disappear into the bowels of the Temple. The rectangular opening was fairly big, as was the chute.  
  
Obi-Wan reflected that a small person could probably fit in there. And the shiny metal sides were quite slippery. In fact, the laundry room itself couldn't be more than a few levels down. And only droids worked down there. Who would notice if a Padawan fell out of a chute instead of dirty tunics?  
  
Deciding that today must be his day for doing dumb, stupid, idiotic things, Obi-Wan stuck his head and shoulders in the opening.  
  
"So far so good," he muttered, his words echoing around him and down the metal tunnel.  
  
With a small jump, he slid his torso and hips in and lifted his legs up to an angle matching the chute. Obi-Wan was now almost fully in, and could feel himself beginning to slide inexorably downwards. Panic gripped him as he realized that wherever he was going, he was going headfirst.  
  
"Too late to back out now!" he said, then yelled as he hit the first downward bend and picked up speed.  
  
His cries reverberated and redoubled back at him as he slid down the chute at high speed. The metal tunnel turned a few corners, bumping him about with cruel disinterest as it continued its descent. Other chutes joined his, converging but merging into one. Finally, the way ahead disappeared as the chute went vertical. Obi-Wan closed his eyes and begged the Force to let him land somewhere soft.  
  
He hit his head against the opposite tunnel wall as it curved downwards and then he was plunging headfirst into an unknown fate.  
  
Fortunately, or rather, unfortunately for Obi-Wan, a whim of the laundry chute designers checked his graceless free-fall. With a whoosh his breath was driven from his lungs as the chute narrowed and wedged him in firmly. His shoulders were stuck and it took a moment for the Padawan to realise exactly what had happened.   
  
Opening his eyes, he saw only the smooth metal surface of the tunnel sides. Wriggling experimentally, he found he was jammed tight. His hands were pinned at his sides and his legs were kicking uselessly in the air above him.  
  
"Oh shit," was about the only thing he could think of to say.  
  
Blood was running to his head and blocking out all coherent thought. At that moment, however, primal instinct conveniently kicked in.   
  
"HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEELLLLLLLLLPPPPPPPP!!!" he shouted, struggling vainly and drumming his heels on the metal side panels. Once again the echoes came back to taunt him. He repeated the exercise a few times, then gave up as he ran out of energy and breath.  
  
Unbidden, a Jedi relaxation technique came to his mind, and Obi-Wan tried to stifle his blind panic with the familiar ritual. Within moments he had achieved a semblance of calm, enough for him to wonder how long it would take for somebody to find him. The idea of being trapped in his current position for days or more prodded him once more to the edge of hysteria. He banged on the chute walls a bit more with his heels; then gave up in despair. No one was going to rescue him. He would die, upside down, stuck in a laundry chute. It wasn't exactly the way he would have chosen. With terrible clarity, Obi-Wan could see the way things would go. When somebody finally noticed the smell, they would pull him out, bury him in the Temple cemetery and erect a small plaque. Masters would take their Padawans there to reinforce their lessons on selfishness and foolishness. All who passed would be reminded of the Padawan who tried to shirk his duties. Qui-Gon would perhaps visit sometimes to stand over his grave, shaking his head and muttering "if onlys".  
  
His morbid musings, however, were rudely interrupted.  
  
"Helloooo! I say, hello up there!"  
  
A voice! Yes, there was definitely someone there.  
  
"Hey! Can you hear me? Help! I'm stuck!" he yelled desperately.  
  
"Oh dear. Well, we'll see what we can do about that then." The voice was mechanical and the inflections prissy.  
  
There was a sudden clanking noise and Obi-Wan felt the walls that imprisoned him retract. Once again he plunged headlong downwards, but after a few moments landed safely in a large bin of clothes.  
  
Gingerly he levered himself upright and peered over the edge. He was in the laundry room. A silver housekeeping droid was regarding him cheerily.  
  
"I say! That was a bit of a tumble! Good thing we had those retractable walls put in. Large loads sometimes get jammed, you see."  
  
"Oh," was Obi-Wan's unenthusiastic reply.  
  
"You're not hurt are you?" the droid continued. "That was a rather long trip. Right from up at the twenty-seventh level, if I could hazard a guess."  
  
"Mmmm." Obi-Wan was by now climbing out of the bin. He saw that he had apparently landed on top of his own clothes. Hastily he gathered them up.  
  
"I'm sorry young sir, but I'm going to have to report this you know. Standard procedure, you know,"  
  
"Standard procedure?"  
  
"Oh yes. It's right there in the manual. 'All non-clothes objects falling down laundry chutes must be reported to the Floor Master'."  
  
The Padawan was busily checking himself for broken bones, cuts and bruises. The droid, not deterred in the slightest, continued.   
  
"Happens quite often, you know. More than you'd think. Gives everyone quite a shock."  
  
"What does?" Obi-Wan was listening now.  
  
"People coming down the chutes. As I said, it gives one quite a scare. One minute you're sorting dirty underwear, the next somebody just tumbles out on top of your pile."  
  
"What? So people come down these chutes quite often then?"  
  
"Well I wouldn't say *often*. But it has been known to happen."  
  
The droids words cheered Obi-Wan up immensely.  
  
"So I'm not the first?"  
  
"Well, no. But if it's any consolation, you're the first to get stuck."  
  
"No, it's not."  
  
"Oh. Well, it was just your misfortune to come down number six. None of the others get narrow like that."  
  
"I'll keep that in mind."  
  
The droid bustled over to his console and punched some buttons. Obi-Wan tried to slide inconspicuously towards the door, still clutching his pile of dirty robes. The droid, however, was one step ahead. A metal grate clanged down, blocking off his escape.  
  
"Sorry young sir, but it's in the manual, you see. 'All non-clothes objects falling down laundry chutes must be detained until questioning by the Floor Master'. And that means you."  
  
Obi-Wan eyed the droid suspiciously.  
  
"And who's the Floor Master?" he asked, getting an awful feeling about the droid's answer.  
  
"I believe this week that Master Windu is the Sanitation Floor Master. It's rostered you see."  
  
"Of course it is," replied Obi-Wan weakly.   
  
Boy, was he going to get it.  
"You'll probably be punished quite severely, you know," continued the droid.   
Obi-Wan was beginning to suspect the thing was take some sort of twisted pleasure from his predicament.  
"Severely?" The small knot in the Padawan's stomach suddenly got tighter. "How? I mean, how are people usually punished for sliding down laundry chutes?"  
"Oh," said the droid, going back to his pile of torn underwear. "The Masters like to make the punishment fit the crime. Usually perpetrators spend a few weeks down here with us, sorting and washing."  
Obi-Wan looked down at the crumpled bundle of his robes in his hands.  
"Well, I know where I'll be starting, then."  
THE END 


End file.
